The Unseen Sea from Simon Christen on Vimeo.
For 49 days and more I haven't been able to cry. Just before the funeral my brother and I had to identify the body. No problem for me, I have seen many, many dead bodies before, in the anatomy department of the uni where I took myself off to draw. Grey dismembered corpses, Siamese twins in a large specimen jar, perfect babies with hair still inside their mother's wombs. No problem.
My brother was nervous but I told him he needed to see our father dead to confirm that he was actually gone. We walked into the room together - a moment of sibling solidarity in a long history of separation. Coffin, white satin, makeup. Dead bodies are grey so they have to make them palatable to the living and although I knew this, I was actually grateful for the makeup. I couldn't cry. The sunken face, vestiges of the long dark lashes, a skin that had seen too much sun. Gone, nobody there. My brother cried, maybe with relief, it wasn't too bad. And maybe he was even a little relieved that this part of his life, our lives, was over. To my brother's credit he had made his peace with his father, but now the man who had caused him so much pain couldn't hurt him any longer.
I read the eulogy. I am now a little used to speaking publicly so that went well. I thought I might cry when they played Pachelbel, or as we stood to watch the coffin being wheeled out, into the hearse and down the street. I walked with my arm around my brother down the aisle between the seats. My brother cried as I stood alongside him, the hearse turned the corner.
I didn't cry for 49 days because I had watched a video about the death practices of the Tibetans. One of the monks had said to the grieving relatives: 'be still, you are only confusing him and he needs to let go'. It was part of my vigil.
Today I stumbled upon a blog through this blog and I saw and heard this. It was so beautiful it hurt and it made me cry. And as I did images of my father flashed in my mind. I cried for his misery and my own, for his frustrated life, the pain of a family doomed from the start, for the books on Jungian psychology I inherited with their copious highlighting that gave me a glimpse of who he really might have been. I cried with guilt that I did not visit him often enough in the nursing home because maybe deep down I thought he got what he deserved. I was wrong, I think he deserved better and I told him that I was so, so sorry.
Thanks to Neighbour @ Temporary Reality (blog) for the video.
